THERE is a bus that travels from Waltham Cross to Manor House in London in the United Kingdom.
People, places and Development with with Mthulisi Mathuthu
This bus cuts through the entire North London district going through the Enfield borough, White Hart Lane and Seven Sisters in Tottenham until it stops in Manor House. Its name is 279.
After 12 midnight the bus changes both its name and route to N279 travelling beyond Manor House past Finsbury Park, Arsenal, Holloway Road right up to Central London skirting around the Zimbabwe and South African, Canadian and US Embassies in Charring Cross and Trafalgar Square before it turns back to North London.
At all the times, day and night, this bus carries workers of all kinds — janitors, teachers, factory workers, waiters, clerks, chief executives, students, revellers, care workers, nurses, bankers, accountants — everybody.
Jump into this bus anytime of the night or early morning and it is always a symphony of snores, shouts, loud and drunken talk. Always, one is greeted by either happy or tired or sad faces-people either coming from night shifts in the factories or care homes from night clubs in Central London.
This is the reality in London: People work long hours or more than one job. As people use public transport most of the times, it is generally difficult to tell the difference between a chief executive officer and a care worker in the bus. Anybody can afford a Marks and Spencer rag and a Kelvin Klein perfume, for example.
Going home last year on a Friday after a good time with my friends at a Ghanaian joint in Seven Sisters, I jumped into N279. As always the bus was a mess — a mix of pong and the usual symphony of varying noises.
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Having failed to find a seat on the lower deck I walked upstairs whereupon I plonked myself next to a smart looking, clean shaven and bald-headed chap. I hated his looking at me as though he was an inspector.
Quitely, I flapped my Economist magazine open and in no time I was reading the section on Zimbabwe and the feature was on Baba Jukwa. Baba Jukwa this and that, went the story. My interest in the feature drew the attention of the bald headed man seated next to me.
“Are you from Zimbabwe?” he enquired politely and with a broad smile. “Yes,” I said but why? Again politely he said he was from Zambia and had relatives in Bulawayo. In fact, he has been to Bulawayo and in Sizinda where his uncle lived working for the NRZ, he added. His name was Norman Sakala, he said.
In a jiffy I was jolted into some deep thinking and my mind was sent scurrying to the every corner of my memory. Norman Sakala! That sounded familiar.
“I think I know you,” he said. “I think so too,” I said; but from whence we both wondered. “Have you been to Zambia before?” he asked.
“Yes,” and that was in 2005 in October, I said.
“Hahahahaha!” he laughed. Gobmascked, I asked why he was laughing? His answer sent some kind of a sweet tremor through my body and drew long and loud laughter out of me.
Sakala, it turned out, is indeed from Zambia and I met him in Lusaka in 2005.
I had just dropped off the plane at the Lusaka International Airport from Harare and he happened to be the first taxi driver I saw parked outside dressed in a blue shirt and a blue trousers. Knowing that I had dropped from a plane from Harare and having lived in Zimbabwe before. Extending his hand, he said: “Masikati or litshonile?” “Sitshonile,” I said.
After a loud laughter we exchanged further civilities and drove off to Central Lusaka where he dropped me by a bureau dé change at the Manda Hill.
He gave me his contact details and went away to have his taxi washed and to have his lunch. After I had finished my business-changing my US dollar travellers’e-cheques (for that was how I was paid then) into loose money I sat down to have some coffee whereupon I realised that I had dropped my other phone in his car.
With my other phone — lent to me by my friend Mehlokazulu who was then working in Zambia but on leave in Harare — I called Sakala. Being an honest man Sakala confirmed that the phone was right there under the front passenger seat.
Could he look after it for me until we met in three hours’ time? Yes, he said.
As per promise we met again after he had finished his work and he drove me to Mehlokazulu’s for he had given me the keys to his flat and allowed me to sleep there instead of booking a hotel. Latter that evening Sakala drove me to a local bottle store called Friday’s Corner adjacent to Kalingalinga — some kind of a Makokoba of Lusaka.
There, Sakala and I and his fellow taxi drivers had a good time. And of course Mosi beer flowed. By accident we met in Lusaka and by accident we met in London.
We will be meeting at his flat which he calls Sakalaland soon for a barbeque and I hope to share more thereafter.
Mthulisi Mathuthu is a Zimbabwean journalist based in the United Kingdom
